


Of Conversations in Safe Rooms

by classics_above_classics



Series: Alice Dorothy and Stories Set Elsewhere [10]
Category: Elsewhere University (Webcomic)
Genre: Advice, Aftermath of Violence, Gen, Mentions of True Names, Michael Needs A Break 2K19, Stress Relief, Talking, discussions on morality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 12:21:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19173175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/classics_above_classics/pseuds/classics_above_classics
Summary: The office of the first Fiddler is a sanctuary for all who seek it. It's almost instinctual, then, to go when something is wrong.(Cowboy, Michael, the first Fiddler- whatever his name, he is happy to help.)





	Of Conversations in Safe Rooms

**Author's Note:**

> In which I finally write something for the best boy in this entire AU. Honestly, the main draw of this fic in my mind was "Michael calms people down" and I was so goddamn happy to write it that I finished this in an hour and a half. I like the feel of this one.

There is a knock on the office door.

Michael blinks, his focus turning back to the world around him. It’s usually quiet around this hour. Does someone need something? He hopes he can help them with it. “Come in.”

Almost the moment he finishes saying that, the door opens. It’s a desperate, sharp sort of movement, the kind that has the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Michael turns almost fully to the door, worry spiking bright in his mind. Who is it? What do they need?

His worry is only slightly alleviated by the fact that it’s Mx. Dorothy who comes in. He’s becoming well acquainted with her in his office at this point. He hopes, this time, that she’s just here to visit, though the bagful of pillows and books she’s bringing don’t help that hope a bit. She gets into far too much trouble for someone who’s not an art or English major.

“Good evening, Mx. Dorothy,” he greets, straightening up in his chair. The clock’s just hit seven- it’s early, for a visit from her. She believes too much in eight and four to come without reason at a more dangerous time. “Is something wrong? Do you need to stay overnight again?”

“Please,” she says quietly, an edge of fatigue openly audible in her voice. The word has to be unthinking, because almost instantly there’s a thin, transparent nylon string glittering between them. As if he didn’t already notice the last one.

“It’s no problem.” Michael watches silently as the string is severed, disappearing from sight and existence. “Stay as long as you like. Did something bad happen…?”

He trails off when he notices the tiny, bleeding cuts on her neck.

“Are those from thorns?” he asks quietly. Mx. Dorothy looks away. From what he can see, the cuts are in the shape of a hand, circling all around her neck and still sluggishly _bleeding_. It’s more than enough to get his heart pounding. He can only imagine what that could be. Some form of mark? Some symbol of fae ownership? “Are you free to talk about it?”

“Yes. Yes, I can.” Dorothy runs a hand through her hair, pulled out of its usual bun and looking almost foreign without that familiarity. “I… I was asked to go back to my former dorm room by Lento’s changeling. There was some sort of other magic there, some hostile magic- something that wasn’t theirs. They asked for my help dispelling it.”

Lento’s changeling? He hasn’t seen them yet, as attached as he is to his office. He doesn’t often leave it, not when some student’s protection doesn’t call for it. Still, from the cuts, from the faint twinge of green coming from them, he can imagine what they look like. Like the forest leaves come alive, he imagines. If he looks closely enough, he can even see…

Wait. No, that- that isn’t right.

“Could you come over here for a second, Mx. Dorothy?” he asks, his eyes falling to the tiny bits of green. It doesn’t feel like there’s any truly hostile magic here, or at least not any he can’t guard against. Still, he hopes he’s seeing things. He doesn’t like the thought of this.

Dorothy blinks, tilting her head, before she shrugs and walks towards him. Even at his height, he has to look up to see the wounds on her neck. Michael grimaces. He wasn’t wrong. “I appreciate the cooperation, Mx. Dorothy. Close your eyes.”

She doesn’t question it. Doesn’t hesitate. Trustingly, far too trustingly, she closes her eyes.

Michael stands, carefully brushing aside the strands of her hair, and as gently as he can, he tugs out the little specks of green.

Plants. There are tiny, budding little plants, growing inside Dorothy’s blood and skin.

Dorothy winces, gritting her teeth, but she keeps her eyes screwed shut. “What is it? Can I open my eyes now?”

“Don’t. It won’t look very good.” She’ll probably be even more scared of this than he is. Thankfully, the green stands out on her neck, bright and blooming against the deep red of blood. And the cuts are small enough that they couldn’t possibly fit more than one growth in each. Michael reaches for the next one, yanking it out as quickly as he can. And then the next. And the next.

This isn’t hostile, and the thought of that feels even worse. This wasn’t meant to happen. Which means that some fairy lost control of their power for a second- probably lost control of their temper, too. And Dorothy got caught in the crossfire. The thought is even more worrying. Despite her nondescript appearance- because of it, maybe- this damned student is a magnet for trouble.

Finally, he gets the last plant out, throwing it unceremoniously at what has become a pile of little, blood-covered leaves and roots. Michael steps away, kicking the little pile out of sight behind a desk before returning to his own. “Alright, you can open your eyes.”

“You were pulling something out of my neck.” Dorothy opens her eyes, rubbing nervously at the little cuts. “Was- Oh, God, was something growing in these? It felt like- like there was something…”

“No,” Michael lies. The words are heavy on his tongue. “I just noticed a lot of little thorns stuck in them.”

“Oh. That’s… that’s comforting.” Dorothy sighs, a relieved smile breaking out across her face. It makes the lie feel a little worse. “I appreciate it.”

“What happened to you?” Michael asks. He needs a distraction. And he also needs to know. “Did Lento’s changeling attack you?”

“They thought I’d placed the hostile magic there.” The student in front of him laughs, as if this is something she can joke about. Maybe she needs the distraction, too. “As if I know how to do that. I can barely believe in my own work, much less in some kind of mind-rapey magic that makes you want to serve someone.”

“How long has that magic been in the dorm?”

“Since last year, October.”

“… Oh.”

How long, then, has Dorothy been under it? How long has that magic been working on her? God, Michael’s becoming even more concerned for this girl. As if the concern he already has wasn’t enough. As if he doesn’t have enough to try and protect.

“It took a while for Lyric-Weaver and I to figure that out, though,” Dorothy continues, “and before we did, they were under the impression that I was the one who had placed it there. So there was a little violence.”

Michael gestures to her neck. “A _little_?”

“Alright, they grabbed me by the throat and threatened me. The threat was unspecified.” Dorothy shivers at the thought, which is more than enough for him. “They’re not here anymore. They went to search for Lento, and presumably also to carry out that unspecified threat on her. I hope she gets out alright.”

“You know what? So do I.” If only to avoid the bloodshed that’s sure to result. “I’ll get the sleeping bag out for you whenever you like.”

“It’s still around seven. Isn’t that a little early?” His visitor clutches her pillow-filled bag a little closer to her chest. “It’s alright. I wanted to do some reading before I went to bed, anyway. I’ve finished all my assignments already, so I can waste a few hours.”

“You managed to fit a book in there?” The bag is nearly overflowing with pillows.

“I did,” Dorothy says proudly, reaching in and pulling out a second-hand copy of The Book Thief. “It was very well cushioned, as you can see.”

Michael laughs. It’s not a very funny joke, but he’s a little on edge, so the laughter’s enough. There’s a pack of cards in his desk drawer, and if he gets bored of sitting in silence, he’s got some card magic he wants to practice. He gets the feeling the fatigue will hit his visitor hard within the hour, so it’d probably be best not to disturb her. “Have a good evening, Mx. Dorothy.”

Dorothy nods, heading for a nearby desk and curling up comfortably against the wooden chair. The book falls open on her lap. “The same to you, Archangel Michael.”

Seven o’clock. The minute hand ticks.

⋈

Mx. Dorothy falls asleep at eight.

Michael only really notices when she drops the book, only really hearing the quiet thump of it hitting the wood floor. He looks up from practicing card tricks to find his visitor slumped over herself, eyes closed and glasses askew. It’s an uncomfortable position. He doesn’t think she notices.

Michael sighs, setting down the ace of clubs and standing up. Dorothy’s bag is on the floor beside her, discarded first for the book and then for unconsciousness. He picks it up and heads for the empty space behind his desk, carefully arranging the array of pillows and blankets on the ground to form a nest. He gets out his extra sleeping bag, too, placing it in the centre where the bedding cushions the floor most. He’s got his own sleeping bag, for long nights and tiring days, but it looks a little too big for Mx. Dorothy. He’s a little worried she’ll get lost in it or something.

When the nest is finished, he gets to the next task: waking his visitor up. After years of experience with three little siblings, he knows how daunting this task can be. Johnny used to throw things when he woke up. He hopes Dorothy doesn’t do the same.

“Mx. Dorothy,” he starts, shaking her gently. Just in case. “Could you maybe wake up? A desk isn’t the best place to fall asleep, you know.”

Surprisingly- thankfully- she wakes up without much issue, blinking herself awake and shifting slightly on the chair. “Michael? Something wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong. I just need you to get up for a bit. Your back will thank me in the morning.”

“Backs don’t talk.”

“Students don’t sleep at desks,” he shoots back. She’s just sleepy enough not to question it. Michael gets her to the sleeping bag with no issue, and after a bit of confusion that’s probably just unfamiliarity with how a sleeping bag works, Dorothy’s all zipped up and unconscious inside. If only every student who fell asleep in his office was so easy to deal with.

Michael looks over his work almost proudly. The whole pillow nest looks comfortable. He could reasonably fall asleep in it, too. It’s a shame he doesn’t have more pillows. Maybe he should ask Johnny to get him more sometime. Or Calcifer. He can always ask them.

And-

He cuts that train of thought off quickly. He doesn’t need to think about what happened.

There’s a knock on the door.

Michael straightens, casting a wary glance first towards the door and then to the student asleep in his office. Then he caves. This could be someone genuinely needing help, someone in trouble they can’t get out of. He’s not going to turn them away.

“Come in,” he calls, eyes on the entrance.

The door opens.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear, Michael muses, staring at his littlest brother in the doorway.

“Cowboy…”

“Do you need anything, Watson?” Michael asks, picking up a card and slipping it into his sleeve. The ace of clubs. He has to get it into his shoe, somehow, for the trick to work. It’s a fun sort of trick, isn’t it? “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing magical. I just… I just need advice. From you.” Watson looks down, something shifting in his posture. He looks… hesitant. Worried. It’s a look Michael doesn’t like on him. “I… is that Alice Dorothy?”

“She’s asleep. Don’t distract yourself.” Michael says quietly. It’s just on the edge of sharp, angry. “What do you need advice on?”

Watson falls silent.

Quietly, too quietly, the door falls shut behind him, leaving Michael with only this. His littlest brother, all silent and pensive, asking him what the best thing to do is. It’s something he’s seen a thousand times over. For a second, he and his brother are children again, staring at each other through the thick tension of a soundless room. It’s only for a second.

“Was what I did wrong?”

The question is serious. The answer is easy. But Michael can’t just say yes. He has to say why.

“Do you think what you did was wrong?” That’s a good place to start. He wishes he was Calcifer sometimes, wishes that he was better with words and better with his brothers. He’s never been quite so good with words. “Do you think sending a girl into a dangerous otherworld was wrong?”

“It was… poetic. It seemed right.”

“It was poetic.” Of course it would seem that way. Watson has always been fey, in his own, quiet way. He’s been more fey than even Calcifer for a while. The youngest two have always been interested in each other’s mindsets, in each other’s worlds. “Did it seem right?”

“It still does. I don’t get it.” Watson’s fingers curl into a fist. “It’s fair. It’s justice. It’s an eye for an eye. Calcifer thought it was fine until you came in. What did you say to them? How did you make them think it wasn’t what should have been done?”

“I didn’t say anything to them.” To be honest, he’s still not all that sure why Calcifer sided with him. They and Watson have always had an understanding. Had they been doubting, too? He wonders why. “I don’t understand why they didn’t agree with you, either. If anything, you’re more likely to know.”

“ _Cipher_.” Watson sounds as exasperated as Michael feels. “Knowing Johnny, he probably knows why.”

“It’s Johnny’s job to know things. Of course he’d know this.” Michael grimaces. “But back to the subject. Let’s try this. Why do you think I’d think you were wrong?”

Watson is silent.

“Think on that,” Michael replies, breaking the silence. “Figure it out on your own. This isn’t something I can teach you. This is something you have to learn. I know you meant well. I know you think what you did was right. And I know you’ll figure out why I thought you were wrong. You’re smart, Watson. You’ve always been. You’ll come to that conclusion eventually.”

Watson nods. “Right. Okay. I’ll think.” He turns, reaching out for the door.

He pauses.

“I love you, Gabe,” he says. “See you when I understand.”

He leaves, leaving Michael alone in a room with a sleeping student and a name he hasn’t heard in years.

“Love you too, Sam,” he says to the empty room.


End file.
